Nuinui
"Let's be farmers after this," my friend, Johnny, says.
I stare at him, baffled and surprised by his sudden confession. Unable to resist, I ask him why.
"Because it seems like a quiet and peaceful life." He smiles at the thought of the sun beaming on his face and the smell of fresh grass. I nod in agreement. Anything calm and relaxing would be better than the situation they were currently in. The walls shake as a great impact slams against it. Gunfire and yelling could be heard, even if it was muffled by the walls. Unaffected, the two continue their conversation.
"But really, a farmer of all things?" I asked, intrigued.
He gives a short chuckle and smiles. "Yeah, yeah. Cows and plants don't seem very exciting do they?" Yet he doesn't wait for my reply and continues to speak. "Well, I'll be the one who decides my paycheck and probably have a nice wife and a happy family."
"That does sound nice."
"Right? So we should definitely have a farm next to each other or something. That'd be cool. Of course I'd have the nicer house and the prettier wife, heh." He grins in triumph, thinking of the future that we will never have. The puddle of his blood steady spreads as the seconds tick by. The severity of his wounds and the fact that he will most likely die in this cold, empty storage room is left unsaid.
"And we'll have fights all the time because you keep trespassing into my land," I retort, ignoring the waver in my voice.
His breath hitches as he laughs. "Yeah, and I'll be the one whose dog always scares the chickens to death."
We speak for a while longer, until his voice weakens and slowly dies off. Only my breath can be heard throughout the room, but I continue to speak about the life he will never live.
--
The breeze brushes against my cheek as the sunlight shines through the trees. I sit by a large rock silently, while enjoying the tranquility. The voices of my children can be heard as they play in the field. A dog's bark echoes from the coop, along with the scolding voice of my lovely wife. I smile to myself and remember my dear friend's words. You were right, Johnny, being a farmer isn't so bad.
She looks at me with her pleading eyes, begging me not to leave. Tears welled up in her eyes, as her eyelashes hung low and heavy with teardrops after every blink. They ran like rivers down her heart-shaped face, a beautiful face now creased in grief and sadness. I could not wipe away her tears because my hands were immovably wrapped around her, in reciprocation to her own tight clutch on me. Her delicate hands showed a surprising amount of strength (or was it due to desperation?) as she grasped the lapels of my coat. "Please, don't go- you don't have to!" she cried out in a choked voice, roughened by tears. She looked into my eyes again, but the words could not come out of her mouth when she realized that I had already made my decision. More tears dropped down her face in streams, and she held back her sobs and buried her tear-streaked face in my chest. I gave her a tighter embrace as her body trembled with every breath she took. 'Don't cry for me,' I wanted to say. 'I'm sorry, forgive me...' But I couldn't. I couldn't because she had every right to cry and because it wasn't my fault that I was being forced to leave. Whose fault was it then? The war's? The peoples' who have started this conflict that has already taken so many lives and continue to do so? I couldn't comfort her with lies or excuses- I could only grip her tighter and hope that it was good enough. After a long moment of unspoken words and silence, I said those words- words that were laden with finality.
"I have to go."
She lifted her face and looked at me. Her tears had stopped, but I could see them trying to burst through and escape freely again. Seeing her face messy with tears, I blurted out the first words that came out of my mouth. (Who cares about a filter right now?) "Smile for me," I said. She blinked at me and just stared. Then her mouth quirked into a small smile, and she giggled. (I will never forget that charming sound for the rest of my life.) I grinned back at her, and lightly kissed her forehead. (If I kissed her on the lips, I don't think I would be able to leave.) Sighing softly, she loosened her hold on my lapels; small imprints of her hands remained on them.
I did not say goodbye. A goodbye would mean a possibility of never seeing each other again. A goodbye would mean the end. So I said the words that I hoped would be more suitable. "I'll see you soon, my love."
My breath catches at the sight before me. A light breeze pushing through the open window causes the soft curtains to sway in the air. The room is quiet and tranquil as birds outside can be heard chirping merrily. Their whimsical playing flows into the room, filling it with life. Sunlight streams into the room, as light spills over every object it can reach. Piles of books and novels are stacked against the walls, their dull, old covers brightened by the sunshine. Amidst the crowded room before me lies a woman who seems to have accidentally fallen asleep on the pile of books she had been reading as research for her writing. I smile fondly at her face that is squashed against an open journal, the dark ink starkly contrasting her pale skin. She is definitely going to wake up with ink stains on her face and will scold me for not waking up her sooner. One of her arms is balanced on the edge of the table, stretched outwards towards the floor, and her other arm, grasping a pen, is resting on the table, still in a bent position. A couple of glass miniature birds is cradled in her hand, as if it was a treasure that she would refuse to let go, even in her sleep. Those glass birds had been given to her by me, and I thought she had disliked them, because she never mentioned them again. I chuckle at the idea of her disliking them now, since considering the way she is tightly clutching at them, she must surely hold some sort of love for them. I quietly step into the room, careful not to disturb her sleep, and then I sit down among the books in the corner, planning to see her reaction when she wakes up and realizes I am here. Will she smile widely at my sudden visit, or will she fumble and embarrassingly make an excuse about the miniature birds?